In a recent — and thoroughly unscientific — survey, I studied the genesis of names.
Specifically, I asked 18 family members and friends to divulge the origins of their children’s names.
As a bachelor, of course, I know nothing about the process and politics of naming progeny. I only know that tragically, due to cultural taboos, I can never name my daughter after the great hymn writer Fanny Crosby.
But thanks to my kin’s feedback, I now know that I can name my daughter after zoo animals, like my niece, Timber. Her mother wanted Emily Ann, but her father worked at a small zoo that featured wolves.
Or I can name my child after book characters (Gandalf Aslan Baumgartner rolls off the tongue); I can name them after Pokémon characters; I can name them after heroes of the faith.
And according to cousin Darren Ray Drayer, I can even name them after an “ugly, dying cow.”
(Actually, his parents deny that they christened him in honor of a cow, but his older brother insists it’s true).
Of course, based on this survey, I also know that I actually won’t name them anything. Apparently, the wife wields significant veto power, though they might occasionally compromise: My brother’s wife wanted to name their oldest daughter after a good friend, but my brother then chose her middle name based off a type of cheese.
But no matter the reasoning, no one chose their children’s names carelessly — and neither does God. In an interesting verse in Revelation, Jesus promises to give “to him who overcomes … a white stone, and on the stone a new name written which no one knows except him who receives it.”
Jesus doesn’t identify the reasoning He’ll use to determine that name, but I believe it will somehow symbolize the special bond between Him and those overcomers — a bond that began before they were born and that they forged each day after they were born again.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; Before you were born I sanctified you,” God told the prophet Jeremiah, and I believe He can say that to everyone else.
For instance, Jesus knew Jacob Keller before he was born — and He knew that Jacob Keller would one day murder his uncle to secure his inheritance, which he used to travel to Adams County.
And He knew that Keller, after arriving, would make cheese for a Christian named Adam Hartman, whose life and preaching inspired Keller to repent, believe, and even confess his crime to the Swiss government.
But the Swiss government decided not to demand Keller return, saying that if God had forgiven him, they could do no less.
Keller lived the rest of his mortal life in Adams County and never married nor had children. Only a flat tombstone in a small cemetery carries on his earthly name.
And as far as the rest of world knows, Keller’s name will never escape the anonymity and insignificance of that tombstone. It certainly will never earn a headline or dominate a social media feed.
But Keller’s new name will testify when and where all the names of the unbelieving celebrities, athletes, politicians, billionaires, and social media influencers won’t even merit a mention.
That name will testify because of God’s faithfulness and mercy, which will graciously honor Keller’s faithfulness.
And like Keller, everyone who lives faithfully for God — who overcomes and honors their King — will bear the name of their God, no matter how little fame, praise, or applause their earthly names bore in this life.
As King Solomon wrote in Proverbs, “A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches.”
And as Jesus says, those who choose this good name will hear the applause of Heaven.
They will hear the King of kings and Lord of lords — the Alpha and Omega — declare, “Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.”
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